


The Princes of the Noldor

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Drama, First Age, Plot - I reread often, Writing - Every word counts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2007-02-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a series of stand-alone vignettes, each concerning a grandson of Finwë at a turning point or decisive moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Maedhros

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

"This is the best you could find?"  
  
Amrod pulled the carcass from his horse. "We are fortunate to have meat at all. Some would call it poor sport to shoot so easy a target." He looked into the frozen eyes of the dead creature. "I am truly sorry for it, old friend."  
  
He sat now in resentful silence, sharpening his knife a distance from the fire. If their eyes met, Maedhros saw the hatred within, burning with more intensity than the flames between them. (1)  
  
"He despises me."  
  
"Naturally. Eat your supper."  
  
He glared at Maglor but took the roasted meat and sat down. "Yet, he is here."  
  
"And for that, he despises you."  
  
He tore into the leathery food with a vigour that made his jaws ache - the deer must have known her legs were too old to journey east with her herd. As the elves had left Ossiriand and come into Taur-im-Duinath, game had grown scarce; above the blighted forest, carrion birds circled lazily, sharp eyes fixed upon their unlucky prey.  
  
Fog rolled over the camp in great ghostly billows, seeming to rise from the marsh rather than lower from the sky. Only the one fire had been lit. Elves came forward to claim their share of the venison and retreat, unwilling in spite of the damp cold to sit near the brothers. They stood in small groups or alone, their backs squared with resignation - a fog of its own, wherein one fixed upon the task at hand, shutting out useless questions. Maedhros remembered when love engendered their fealty, and honour, their will; later, hatred for the common foe had sufficed. This day, he could see nothing for the fog.  
  
"It will be a dark night," Maglor observed.  
  
"We will need it."  
  
Maglor gained his feet in a single, fluid motion. "Bury the carcass," he said to the cook, and began to douse the fire. "It is growing too dark to risk it - we will be detected. Their eyes are keen."  
  
Maedhros could not make out the mood of this most gentle of his brothers. He should have the blame for it, tonight, whether it went well or no, for he had moved them to this, yet Maglor would not leave him to it. _We do this together_ , he seemed to say.  
  
A low whistle signalled the return of the messenger. Moments later, the elf stood before him.  
  
"You were not followed."  
  
"No."  
  
"She will not yield the jewel."  
  
"No."  
  
He threw his meat into the remains of the fire and summoned his lieutenant. "Pass the word among the others. We shall leave at nightfall."  
  
The elf dipped his head in acknowledgement and went about his orders with swift purpose. The waiting, the slow pace at which they had crept upon Lisgardh and the sombre mood of the host had stretched even the patience of elves.  
  
Maedhros had expected that his last warning would fail; he had planned the coming night with all the careful detail and none of the uncertainties he had put into the last assault on Morgoth. One's own kind was the easiest of foes and most dependable of allies. They would come upon Lond Sirion in confusion, lay flat all chance of pursuit and escape with what they sought: a simple strategy inspired by the wreckage of Orkish raiding parties. An advance party awaited them by the waterfront, oil and torches at the ready. No hope would come from the sea tonight, nor would the Silmaril take flight by that route.  
  
"I know your thoughts, Maedhros. I would not like to carry so cold a burden."  
  
"We do not go looking for defeat," he said, eyes fixed on the horizon. In the agonies of the night, he and Maglor had spoken of the Oath and its implications before Eru. What hope had they of taking the other two from Morgoth? The Oath would continue to hound or the Void would stretch eternal.  
  
Night gathered upon the grey twilight as Anor fell into the West. Maedhros turned away from the last of her sickly light to look upon his brother. "But we may hope for defeat."  
  
 **\--------------------**  
  
(1) I've gone with the late story in which Amras died in the burning at Losgar. ( _The Peoples of Middle-earth_ , 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' pp 354-355 pub Houghton Mifflin)


	2. Maglor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a series of stand-alone vignettes, each concerning a grandson of Finw at a turning point or decisive moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made some changes thanks to some helpful criticism from a reader - hopefully, for the better.

**Author's Note:** I've made some changes thanks to some helpful criticism from a reader - hopefully, for the better.  
  
The end of Arda: the final battle; the journey's end; a release from all things.  
  
That was yet to come.  
  
The end of Arda: he stood upon bare rock, far above the grinding ice and harsh seas. To go forward - impossible. To go back, he must remember how he came. (1)  
  
How many yéni had he wandered, keeping the seas always to his right? One could not grieve for those who deserved death; one should not lament losses when others had lost more by a guilty hand. To forget, then, would suffice - surely, even an Elf could lose the thread of time.  
  
Filling his mind with other thoughts and unknown wonders, with new memories that neither pained nor comforted him, he had almost forgotten his grief. He had made new songs in an unknown tongue that revealed itself as he gave it meaning and he had sung of white sands that scorched his feet, of forests thick with the eyes of Men, of ice floes groaning in an empty, white world. Walking by Tilion's light, he delighted in stars never before seen, and soon had known them all, and had given them names. He had seen birds painted in all the colours of Arda, and had learnt all their songs.  
  
Now, he had no songs left to sing.  
  
He could gaze into the horizon, into the West and his Doom, until brave mariners to come would not know him from the stone.  
  
He could claim this place for his own, and live undisturbed for an Age or more; but the land seemed to want no master.  
  
From his high perch, he could leap into the arms of Námo.  
  
All such roads led only to delay, not destination.  
  
He had seen that the world was no longer flat but round. This was not yet the end of Arda, for was it not in the nature of things round to go ever on? What had once been straight had become bent, the West become East, and though time would move forward, Maglor would not. (2)  
  
Where his journey had begun waited a white ship with an ancient shipwright who would not refuse to bear him. Only by the bent way made straight could he find his journey's end. (3)  
  
 **\--------------------**  
  
(1) The end of Arda: he stood upon bare rock, far above the grinding ice and harsh seas.  
Based on Tolkien's fancy that Middle-earth is our ancient history, I've imagined that Maglor has reached Cape Horn. The geographical purist will allow for some conveniently-placed grinding ice, seeing as such things have existed during human history. The Cape is actually nearly inaccessible, even in modern times. ( _The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien_ , No 183 p 239 pub Houghton Mifflin)  
  
(2) He had seen that the world was no longer flat but round.  
 _Thus in after days, what by the voyages of ships, what by lore and star-craft, the kings of Men knew that the world was indeed made round... ._ ( _The Silmarillion_ , 'Akallabêth', p 338 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)  
  
(3) Only by the bent way made straight could he find his journey's end.  
The idea that Maglor eventually made it to Valinor is somewhat uncanonical: _For Maglor was mighty among the singers of old, named only after Daeron of Doriath, but he never came back among the people of the Elves._ ( _Ibid_ , 'Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath' p 305)


	3. Celegorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a series of stand-alone vignettes, each concerning a grandson of Finw at a turning point or decisive moment.

Huan lay with his head resting on his great paws and his body stretched across the floor of the room. He blinked slowly, his eyes never leaving his master.  
  
Celegorm stepped over him with a curse; this business of packing went no faster for the dog's ill-chosen place. "Will you not lie upon your rug?"  
  
Huan gave a woof of disgust and resumed his watch.  
  
From long habit, Celegorm looked to see if Laurelin had begun to wane - for this marked the dinner hour - but his own reflection glared at him from the window glass. In this bitter darkness, he could not tell the hours of mingling from fullness. He wondered if he would ever accustom himself to the dim light of the stars; even those who had awoken at Cuiviénen now wandered as if lost. In the ever-night, the Valaróma sounded in echo of those days, bringing comfort to the Elves. Huan's ears twitched toward the sound.  
  
"Do you not think that I shall also miss Oromë on this greatest of all hunts? But the Valar will not aid us." By their own fault had all griefs come to pass, yet they cowered before Melkor, and looked coldly upon the Elves who dared otherwise. "They think only of the Trees, and care not that the thief remains at large." With a vicious tug, he loosed his bedroll from the linen chest. Turning around, he found a tail where the floor had been bare and only with the grace of his kind did Celegorm keep his balance and avoid Huan's injured protest. (1)  
  
Huan looked at him guilelessly.  
  
"That hound is a nuisance," Curufin observed, sticking his head in the doorway.  
  
Celegorm threw himself into a chair and stared at Huan. "The hound, as you say, is determined not to go."  
  
"Indeed?" Curufin looked at the dog curiously. "So is my wife, but she does not lie across the floor to hinder me."  
  
"They have evidently both forgotten their places. It is the duty of a wife to follow her husband and the duty of a _dog to follow his owner_."  
  
Huan only blinked at the pointed words.  
  
"Perhaps you should leave him. Atar did tell us to travel light."  
  
Huan turned a look of utter disdain upon Curufin.  
  
"He learnt that from you," Celegorm said. Turning again to his hound, he clapped his hands. "Come, Huan! Great deeds await you across the sea! Soon, you will chase not rabbits but Orcs!"  
  
Huan gave a great yawn.  
  
"You have no choice, Huan. We took an oath."  
  
To his amazement, the dog whimpered.  
  
"Oh, for the sake of Eru!" Curufin turned to go. "Come to my chambers before we eat. Good luck with Huan."  
  
Celegorm could not resist a parting shot. "Good luck with your son."  
  
Curufin grimaced and was gone.  
  
Celegorm studied his dog. "Huan." He winced at his own voice - was he was _pleading_ with the creature? It was well that Curufin had left him, for he would not have heard the end of it. "I do not see how I can leave you here."  
  
Huan scrabbled to his feet and came to his master. He wagged his tail and looked at Celegorm with hopeful eyes.  
  
Now he understood - the dog did not want _him_ to go. "But the choice has been made, my friend, and I must abide by it."  
  
Huan gave a great sigh and sat on his haunches, head resting on Celegorm's lap.  
  
 _Yet, it shall be the undoing of both of us. Not glory but death and dishonour await you, son of Fëanáro._ (2)  
  
Celegorm froze. "Fair shall the end be," his father had said. With a shaky laugh, he scratched behind Huan's ears. What could a dog know? (3)  
  
 **\--------------------**  
  
(1) "They think only of the Trees, and care not that the thief remains at large."  
Tolkien suggests that the allure of the Two Trees made the Valar complacent toward Morgoth and less concerned with the damage done to Middle-earth. (ref _Morgoth's Ring_ , 'Myths Transformed' p 377 pub Houghton Mifflin)  
(2) _Yet, it shall be the undoing of both of us. Not glory but death and dishonour await you, son of Fëanáro._  
I'm not implying that Huan actually spoke - since that would be quite out of canon - only that Celegorm understood him: _...but Celegorm went rather to the house of Oromë, and there he got great knowledge of birds and beasts, and all their tongues he knew._ ( _The Silmarillion_ , 'Of Eldamar and the Princes of the Eldalië' p 62 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)  
(3) _'Fair shall the end be... .'_  
(ref _Ibid_ , 'Of the Flight of the Noldor' p 89)


	4. Caranthir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a series of stand-alone vignettes, each concerning a grandson of Finw at a turning point or decisive moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tolkien tells us that Maglor, Caranthir and Curufin were married, but only Curufin's wife is specifically said to have remained in Aman. Thus, it is certainly possible that Caranthir did not marry until he came to Beleriand. ( _The Peoples of Middle-earth_ , 'Of Dwarves and Men' p 318 pub Houghton Mifflin)

_He cocked his head sideways in cold curiosity. Beseechment turned to horror as her face froze forever in final agonies and her fëa fled, leaving eyes dead and cold. He had killed Elves, Men and Orcs but never had he seen death. She had been someone of importance, someone close to Nimloth, perhaps. He could sense that they had been near it; he had known the moment they lost it. The maid's life was a poor trade, but no less rightfully his than what had been stolen._   
  


**\--------------------**

He saw her, ruined yet still filled with spirit, and knew then what was right and good to do. He invited her to live between the lands he and his brothers held, where she and her people would be safe, but she would have none of it. He invited her to take shelter under his own roof, and trade her hard life for his hospitality, but this too, she refused.

"Then I have but one thing left to offer, and before you say 'Nay!', know you that such refusal is taken not lightly by the heart of an Elf. Therefore, consider your answer with care!"

She looked at him gravely. "Then let me think on it, and give my answer in the morn."

In the morning, she returned as promised, but still unmoved. "Neither man nor Elf shall have me. I am mother to my people - that is my lot - and great ill, I sense, would come should I leave them."

He was never sure what insanity moved him, but he would have her and no other. He wished to mingle himself within her, and know what it was to be free; wished to capture the spark that animated her, and know what it was to be alive.

He let her go, and she took the Haladin into Estolad and there dwelt, but his suit did not waiver. Each year at midsummer, he journeyed to that region and asked for her hand. Each year, her answer was the same.

Some dozen years passed in this manner and she wearied of his pursuit.

"Will you not cease, lord? For my heart shall not change."

When he returned one year later, he found the dwellings of the Haladin empty and cold. He sent messengers far and wide in search of her. A year passed, then two, but at last, one of his people returned with tidings.

"I am told by the men in Dor-lómin that your kinsman Finrod obtained for them Thingol's leave to settle in Brethil."

Though leaves already fell, and the winds were cold and foreboding out of the north, he set out forthwith and came into Brethil as the first snow flew.

"Would that you had waited another ten years, lord, for perhaps you would then understand. Do you not see the white in my hair, or that my face is no longer smooth as it was in my youth? And yet you, who have lived more years than I can count, will ever be in the spring of your years."

"Do not think I have not thought on this."

"But you have not," she replied. "Nor do you hear the words of my heart. You are quick to make judgement, and will not see that in your haste, you have erred."

He bowed his head, for he perceived that she was not wrong. "You do not know," he said quietly, "how everything shrinks upon me, until I cannot move for decisions that cannot be unmade. Mine is a lonely life - I quarrelled too often with my brothers, that they friended one another in our youth, and I became the seventh of what should have been six.

"I brood alone in my great house, too proud to mend things, and see only the walls I have made," he continued.

"Walls are good for houses, not for hearts."

"And what do you call what you fence around yours?"

"It is not my heart that is lonely, lord."

"Then I am the fool," he said with bitterness. "Fool was I to hope that you would free me, and be my companion when winter closes and the nights are long."

"And yet so captured, I would trade my freedom for yours. Tell me, would you remove yourself to Brethil, and live among my people, as you demand of me?"

He laughed bitterly. "Now you mock me, or you truly do not know how things stand among the Elves."

"I do not mock you. Yet, I perceive that an ill goes with you that I would scarce bring upon me."

He took her arm roughly. "Has your good patron, Finrod, told you this? Or perhaps Thingol, who hates us, has set your mind against me."

"Unhand me!"

He released her and bowed his head in misery. Good will and fine intentions so often came to quarrel and wrath in his dealings. Few could abide him for long, yet he had seen from the first that this woman would never fear him. "This is how it ends, then."

"Lord, it never began," she said in a voice so soft and filled with pity that at last, he saw. She did not love him. She would never love him, even if he pursued her the rest of her mortal days.

**\--------------------**

The well-wishers were now drunk or asleep and Maglor's voice had roughened with overuse. In a year's time, Maedhros would stand for his father, and speak the words that would join them for the remainder of their immortal lives. He had known his bride-to-be only four weeks, and would have bonded himself to her already were it not for the heavy weight of custom. Instead, he would be wintering at Himring, leaving his folk to wonder that he did not return to Thargelion.

Still quite sober, for he did not trust his tongue, he stood alone, listening to a ballad that would have been quite inappropriate outside the male territory of the lounge.

"May I have a word with you?"

With a sigh, he followed Maedhros to his private quarters. They shared a drink, a good vintage off his own lands. Winemaking had become a fine art in Thargelion, one in which he had no small part, and with this gift he persuaded his brothers to come to Lake Helevorn during the vinting season each year.

He dutifully awaited the usual questions, the very questions Manwë must have asked of Finwë when he took Míriel to wife: _Do you love her? Will she make you happy? Will you make her happy? Can you pledge your love in the sight of Eru?_

"Do you love her?"

"Obviously."

"Do you truly, truly love her?"

This was not expected.

"Or do you still hold out love for another?"

He had forgotten tears and swallowed suspiciously at the lump in his throat. "She does not return it."

"Then why, Moryo?"

Why indeed? He could tell Maedhros that his betrothed had _her_ face, when she was yet freshly a maiden; that this loveless marriage would be his revenge; that he would at last see her suffer as he had suffered. Maedhros, however, with his maddening sense of right, would never allow it, and Caranthir had to consider that he could, indeed, prevent the marriage. A few words to the lady and her mother, words of a heart given to another, and the silver ring would be returned to him. "I will not suffer these years alone, Nelyo." There, for a moment, a better spirit wavered in him, the spirit of Carnistir, whom he had once been, and he spoke truthfully to Maedhros.

**\--------------------**

In the end, she had crumpled before him, all will leaving her when she saw his designs. She had not been worthy, he reasoned. Her ghostly remains mocked _her_ spirit, mocked the blackened remains of his heart. Not even revenge could be had.

**\--------------------**

_Maglor sent a messenger: reinforcements were coming, they must get out. He pulled his sword from the maid's breast and looked for her companion. Too many years had he been compelled to seek what would never be for the taking. He had grown to believe that pain justified pain. Perhaps, in this Valar-forsaken land, it did._

**Author's Note:** Tolkien tells us that Maglor, Caranthir and Curufin were married, but only Curufin's wife is specifically said to have remained in Aman. Thus, it is certainly possible that Caranthir did not marry until he came to Beleriand. ( _The Peoples of Middle-earth_ , 'Of Dwarves and Men' p 318 pub Houghton Mifflin)


	5. Curufin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a series of stand-alone vignettes, each concerning a grandson of Finw at a turning point or decisive moment.

Celegorm might have been one of the demons pursuing them, with his red eyes and war paint of soot and blood; Curufin supposed that he looked much the same. Even had they held the pass of Aglon, the smoke out of Dorthonion would have defeated them. Yet, the wind had at last turned - most likely to Caranthir's ill fortune - and with it pursuit had failed. The host tailing them had fanned eastward, intending to turn north, and capture Himring, or to march through to Thargelion. The elves of defiled Himlad rested now just beyond the joining of the Aros and Celon.  
  
"We can go neither east nor north, except at peril of meeting the very army we evaded."  
  
"But if the tracked become the trackers, we could be of aid to our brothers."  
  
"We have elf-maids, and little ones. And others who will not lift a sword," Curufin added, casting a dark look upon his son.  
  
"Also, there is the balrog."  
  
"That, too. We do not even know if Himring still stands."  
  
"Maedhros will stand."  
  
"Still, we cannot go that way."  
  
"South, then. Or west."  
  
His lips twisted in a half-smile. "Those would seem to be the choices left to us, seeing as we have ruled out north and east. Unless you imagine another direction - up, perhaps? You always did confuse that with north."  
  
"Your humour is as foul as your odour, dear brother." Celegorm took his water-skin and stood up.  
  
"Do not go into the river, Turko."  
  
A bath would serve him well, but he could not wade into the Aros for the Girdle of Melian and the Celon ran red with blood and debris. Days of wearing mail with a dirt-encrusted undervest had rubbed his right shoulder raw. He unfastened the buckles that held the mail in place. He could see movement in the forest beyond the river as Celegorm knelt to fill his water-skin. The _Iathron_ meant to be seen. (1)  
  
Celegorm stood. "Is the enchantment of your witch not enough? You would sooner raise arms against Elves than against the foul creatures of Morgoth. You call us Kinslayers, but you are no better."  
  
An arrow whistled overhead, close enough to stir Celegorm's hair in its draught. Celegorm reached for his sword and started forward.  
  
"Stop him," Curufin said to Celebrimbor, "before he does something more foolish than usual." Gingerly, he loosened the mail from his raw shoulder.  
  
Celebrimbor descended swiftly to the river bank and took Celegorm by the arm. "Had he intended to hit you, his arrow would have found its mark," Curufin heard him say. "Still, I think he would let a fool drown himself in the river."  
  
Celegorm twisted out of his grip. "It is not enough that we must protect you as an elf-maid or child, but you will be insolent, too."  
  
Curufin laughed. "You probably should not have called their queen a witch." He threw his mail at Celebrimbor. "Do something about this."  
  


**\--------------------**

  
By noon, Celebrimbor had set up a forge for repair of swords and armour. "Work the weaponry most in need of repair. We shall not tarry long here," Curufin ordered. Ignoring Celebrimbor's sarcastic retort, he went in search of the lieutenants to see that all was well and that their camp was well guarded. He had not seen Celegorm - who should have made these rounds with him - in hours. He had gone off to sulk, most likely, or to chase some maiden. Considering his luck at the latter, his skill would be better used at the hunt.

He was not to be found with the elf-maids doing the wash along the banks of the Aros. Beyond a cloak hung for privacy, he could hear the giggles of maids pouring water over one another in an attempt to wash off the dirt.

"Give me your clothing, _híren_ , and I will wash them," an elf-maid called. (2)

"I fear that without the dirt, nothing would remain of them," he laughed. Clean clothing would have been small comfort against dirty skin. He could hardly bear his own stink, but the discomfort fuelled the fire in his heart. He would have a bath when he had a tub of finely-hewn marble in which to bathe. Their people would not become a wandering folk, led by dispossessed lords pretending to a greatness lost.

In a clearing not far from the edge of camp, two youths had made a target of sorts and were taking turns at a game of _pelicorma_. The game was near to its end and the young archers now vied for the tiny circle at the centre of the ring. Several older elves stood by, watching or wagering on the game with extra boots and cloaks. (3)

The taller of the youths hit the middle of the target, to the cheers or groans - depending on their fortune - of the onlookers.

The second youth lifted his chin and took his place. "You have not yet won, Cristiúl." He took aim, held his breath, and shot. His arrow sliced neatly beside Cristiúl's arrow, knocking it to the ground. _"I vellphen gritha i vabed!"_ (4)

 _To the strong go the spoils._ Curufin smiled grimly to himself before addressing the party. "Your arrows would be better spent in pursuit of game, and your hands more useful at the forge."

The youths and their elders dispersed, perhaps spurred by his dark and brooding frown. In truth, he had already forgotten the indolent elves - but not their game.

**\--------------------**

  
Celegorm had gone hunting after all - with success, if one were to judge by the bloodied rags left in a heap by the fire. Engrossed in the balance of some fletching spread out before him, he sniffed with disgust at Curufin's return. "Oh, it is only you, Curvo. I feared an orc had come into our camp."

"Do you remember the game taught to us as children learning to shoot?"

"Pelicorma? What of it?"

"Another arrow has taken the eye of the target, but we have the last shot." He looked slyly at Celegorm. "If the runner from the western front told the story aright, we shall find Nargothrond without King or successor."

"I hardly think our cousin would refuse us succour, even were he present. But I am not of a mind to grovel and stoop to his steward like a beggar."

Truly, his brother was as slow to think as he was quick to rise. "Does our House not own the eldest blood?" Curufin said with a thin smile. "We stoop to no one." (5)

Celegorm twirled a feather in his fingers. "What fortune, if lords in need of a kingdom should find a kingdom in need of a king."

"Indeed. I think we shall go west, brother." He sat down on the tattered cloak that served as his bed. "I think west will suit us very well."

**\--------------------**

(1) _Iathron_ (S)  
This is presumably the male singular of the collective plural _Iathrim_ , people of Doriath.

(2) _híren_ (S)  
my lord, from _hîr_ , lord and _-en_ , my (suffixed form)

(3) _pelicorma_ (Q)  
'around the ring', from _pel-_ , to go around and _i corma_ , the ring. The game is loosely based on 'Around the Clock', a darts game.

(4) _"I vellphen gritha i vabed!"_ (S)  
To the strong go the spoils, lit. 'The strong one reaps the seizing': _vellphen_ is constructed from _bell_ , strong (lenited to _vell_ following _i_ , the), and the liquid mutation of _pen_ , one; _gritha_ (lenited from _critha_ as a verb following its subject) is the present tense of _critha-_ , to reap; _vabed_ (lenited from _mabed_ following _i_ ) is the gerund of _mab-_ , to seize.

(5) "Does our House not own the eldest blood?"  
This was inspired by Curufin's words in 'The Lay of Leithian':  
 _'but one by right_  
is thine (and ours), the jewel of light;  
another may be won-a throne.  
The eldest blood our house doth own.' ( _The Lays of Beleriand_ p 284 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)

Curufin loses a great deal of his importance and character in _The Silmarillion_. In the earlier lay, Tolkien notes that the outing on which Lúthien was discovered was intended to _intercept Felagund_ \- in other words, the brothers quite wilfully intended Finrod's death. Further, Tolkien writes, _it is Curufin who put evil into Celegorm's heart._ ( _Ibid_ p 293) Christopher Tolkien makes an interesting observation with regard to the relationship between the brothers: _It is clear from line 2324 ff. that Celegorm has some authority - or is felt by Curufin to have some authority - that Curufin lacks._ ( _Ibid_ p 294) Lines 2324 and 2325, found on p 284, read as follows:  
 _'At least_ **thy** profit it would be  
To know whether dead he is or free (emphasis mine)  
Hence, the need to prod his brother into taking action - evidently, as the younger of the two, Curufin is subordinate to Celegorm, at least in the eyes of the Nargothrondrim.


	6. Ambarussa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a series of stand-alone vignettes, each concerning a grandson of Finw at a turning point or decisive moment.

It comes for us again, Ambarussa, just as it did before, stealing me from the deep wood, where only the loneliness of your company disturbs the quiet. Do you blame me for it? That I cannot resist, though you suffered for it?  
  
Had we to do it again, we would not be as two halves of a whole, but would have perished as one.  
  
It drives me whether I will it or no, this sleeping dragon, but 'twas not I who awakened it. Indeed, we thought little of the Oath, you and I, in the fastness of Ossiriand, but our brother could not let it be. We are fools, all of us, we sons of Fëanor no more so than this lady who places a bauble before peace. What beguilement have these jewels! We are all driven to madness for them. But you know that, Ambarussa. You turned from them when I did not. One moment we separated, we who could not tell your right hand from mine.  
  
They come for us now - do you hear the beat of their hooves? In mask of red and cloak of black, they fly with the banner of our House streaming behind them, that Star that sends Elves into hiding from terror until they pass. They do Morgoth's work this night, and I have no will but to answer their call.


	7. Fingon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a series of stand-alone vignettes, each concerning a grandson of Finw at a turning point or decisive moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I prefer Gil-galad as the son of Orodreth/Arothir, but having noticed that most 'Gil-galad is sent to the Havens' stories are written from Gil-galad's point of view, I wanted to write one from Fingon's point of view. Ten, in Elven years, is about four in human years.

**Author's Note:** I prefer Gil-galad as the son of Orodreth/Arothir, but having noticed that most 'Gil-galad is sent to the Havens' stories are written from Gil-galad's point of view, I wanted to write one from Fingon's point of view. Ten, in Elven years, is about four in human years.  
  


**\--------------------**

  
"I have been searching for you the last hour." He had not thought to look in the room his father had once occupied, yet the fresh wildflowers with their childish arrangement and the lack of staleness in the air told him that Ereinion came here often.

"I was waiting for _Addo_. I saw Thorondor, and I thought he would bring Addo back from Mandis. Did he bring him back, Ada?" (1)

"Mandos," Fingon corrected. He lifted the child into his arms. Someone had braided his hair with strands of gold thread, like his father's legendary braids, though Fingon had of late found little time for such vanity. "Addo is not ready to return just yet. Thorondor has come because he wants to take you on a journey. Would you like that?"

"Like Addo?"

The child could not understand that the eagle had taken Fingolfin's hroa, not his fëa, away to Gondolin, or that an elf's stay in Mandos would last untold ennin. Indeed, many wondered if the Doom would permit the Exiles to be re-housed. Fingon's heart resisted this. He believed that the Noldor still had hope, if only in death.

"No, this will be more like an adventure. You are going to the Havens to visit Lord Círdan. He will show you the seaside and the great ships he sails. It is not so cold there, and you will not have to stay inside after leaf-fall."

Ereinion laid his head on Fingon's shoulder. "When will Nana come home?"

"Soon," he soothed.

_"I will not stay here and see you deceive him, Fingon."_

_"He has not yet seen his tenth begetting day. He does not understand 'never' and 'forever'._

_"Nor does his father."_

She had gone to see her kin at Tol Sirion. By the time she returned - if she chose to return - her son would be in Brithombar.

He carried Ereinion into the nursery and tucked him into bed. "Would you like to hear a story?" Would he ever tell another bedtime tale?

"Yes, Ada," he said with more politeness than enthusiasm.

Fingon sat on the bed and began a tale he had never yet told through to the end. Always, Ereinion had interrupted with questions, and tonight, he suspected, would be no different. "In a land far away, there lived a king who had three sons. The king had grown tired of ruling his land, and decided that he would give his crown to his sons. His sons were not evil but they quarrelled a good deal, and the king knew they could never rule peacefully together. He thought much on this, and at last called his sons to him. 'Go on a journey,' he said to the three, 'and bring me a great treasure. He who brings me the greatest treasure will have rule of my kingdom." (2)

"Did you have to bring Addo a great treasure?"

"Yes, I did."

"What did you bring him?"

"You."

"I am not a treasure!" Ereinion protested sleepily.

"Oh, but you are, my child."

'The greatest the Noldor now hold, though they do not know it,' Fingon added silently.

"You should have brought him a jewel."

"No," Fingon sighed heavily. "He would not want a jewel." He stood and kissed the child. "It is late, and your ada is weary." He tucked the bedclothes tightly around his son, as if they would ward off all his fears for the boy. _"Nai óluvatyen lissivë."_ (3)

 _May your dreams be sweet._ Such sayings, brought out of Aman, had no meaning here. Neither father nor son rested easy these nights.

_"He understands more than you think, Fingon. He is terrified of losing us."_

"Ada?"

"Yes, child?"

"Leaf-fall is a long time away."

Grimly, Fingon wondered if he had made the right choice. He had seen little ones die of grief, their fëar fleeing to join their fathers and mothers. He had deemed it better to trust in Círdan than in the defence of his own realm. Things worse than death could take his son.

"You will find me in your dreams, Ereinion, each night while you are away. You will never be alone." This much, at least, he knew to be true.

Returning to his study, he picked up his quill but found it empty of words. He should tell Círdan to leave a slow candle burning in the child's room at night, lest he wake and be frightened of the dark. He should tell Círdan that Ereinion had not yet learnt to swim, that he must have his stuffed toy for comfort and that he liked apples in his porridge. He should tell Círdan of his apprehension that Dor-lómin would soon be overrun, that he could not manage a retreat with a small son to protect, and that he feared his reign would be short.

_I do not know when I shall think it safe to call for his return._

  
He folded the letter, with its single line of supplication, and snuffed the candle.

**\--------------------**

(1) _Addo_ (Ilk)  
Granddad. This is entirely invented - we have no word for 'grandfather' in Sindarin or Quenya. It's composed from Ilkorin _Adda_ , Daddy, and _ado_ , double, with syncope of the second _-ad_. If, as some have guessed, Ilkorin became Northern Sindarin, the dialect spoken by the Sindarin of the North and hence by the Noldor, then Ilkorin would be the dialect of Fingon's house. Mostly, however, it's meant to sound like a word a child might use for a grandfather.

(2) This, of course, is the beginning of 'Tale of the Three Brothers' from _1001 Arabian Nights_.

(3) _Nai óluvatyen lissivë._ (Q)  
May your dreams be sweet. (lit 'May it be that it will dream to you sweetly'.) _Nai_ is well attested as 'may it be that'. _óluvatyen_ : _óla-_ , to dream, is described as an impersonal verb by Tolkien. Helge Fauskanger, in 'Quettaparma Quenyallo', suggests that it would take the dative rather than the nominative, giving a meaning along the lines of 'it dreams to me'. (Helge Fauskanger, _Ardalambion_ ) In this case, I've used the impersonal future tense, the future being required by _nai_ , with the hypothetical dative 2nd pers sing fam _tyen_ suffixed to the verb. _lissivë_ , sweetly, is derived from _lissë_ , which probably came from an Eldarin word ending in _-i_ and therefore would replace _ë_ with _i_ when combined with another word or suffix; the ending _-vë_ that forms the adverb, comparable to English -ly, is based on the attested word _andavë_ , 'longly', from the adjective _anda_ , long. ( _Ibid_ , 'Quenya Course' Lesson 10)


	8. Turgon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a series of stand-alone vignettes, each concerning a grandson of Finw at a turning point or decisive moment.

Much had he lamented the dim candlelight, for she was meant to be seen by the brilliance of Telperion waxing. Yet, the gentle glow only enhanced her pale hair and natural radiance. Perfection - almost. She laughed as he rearranged her hair. "There!" he said. "Now, you look as if you have stepped out of Findaráto's sculpture garden."  
  
"Away with you! You only want to leer at my bosom."  
  
"It is a very fine bosom," Turucáno said gravely, "the finest in all Eldamar."  
  
"And have you seen so many, my lord?"  
  
"Now, I am caught! Either I shall admit to callow excesses of youth and be diminished in your esteem, or I must deny such excesses and diminish the compliment."  
  
"Then we shall leave it there, for I am not one to reject a compliment from my husband." She smiled saucily, but her grey eyes narrowed. "You do not think your father will reconsider?"  
  
"No. In truth, I am of the same mind. I have such plans, Elenwë! Once Melkor is defeated, the hither lands await those with the courage to tame them - there, I might realise what I have only dreamed and drawn, a Tirion of my own design."  
  
"When you speak so, I want nothing more than a realm of our own. Yet I am also wise. Shall Melkor be easily defeated? My father and all the Vanyar doubt that it shall be so."  
  
"Easily defeated, no. Yet grief, not jewels, moves Finwë's younger sons. It was not Ingwë Ingweron who was murdered at Melkor's hand," he said grimly. "I daresay the Vanyar would be of another mind, were such the case."  
  
"Their answer would be no different - the hope of the Vanyar rests in the Valar."  
  
"And yours?"  
  
For a long moment, she took thought, and he agonised in wait of her answer.  
  
"My hope rests in you," she said at last. "But take care, Turucáno Nolofinwion! Should you leave me a fool's widow on some distant battlefield, my pleas to Námo shall not beg for your swift release."  
  
"Let it be so! For it would be a grave thing to be parted from you even a day, and I would find no healing in Námo's house knowing that I have brought this sorrow upon you."  
  
"Such grand words! It is well that I shall be at your side to make order of your realm, and see to it that your subjects have more than great towers and spires of fancy to feed their bellies."  
  
"Without you, my subjects should suffer a far more grievous fate than you imagine. Great towers would I build indeed, but the very stones would weep, and my realm itself would be but a shrine to memory."  
  
"Your poor subjects! You would seal them in a gilded tomb, my lord. I shall-." What she should do he never learnt, for the bed-curtains moved and a dark head poked through the opening.  
  
Elenwë moved to cover herself, but the intruder only laughed.  
  
"My dear sister, your modesty is of no avail, for I have seen our cousin's sculptures."  
  
"I knew I should not have let Findaráto talk you out of your clothes," Turucáno muttered.  
  
"Findaráto could talk Oromë out of his horn," his brother scoffed. "I might have known I would find you here. Atar waits on your answer."  
  
He looked at Elenwë and said, "You may tell him that we - the three of us - will follow him."  
  
She rapped him sharply on the ribs. "You gave me to believe that the decision was made, and I must choose between you and Aman!"  
  
"That is a bad business," Findecáno agreed.  
  
"You are no help to me," Turucáno glared over his shoulder. He turned to Elenwë. "I gave you only the choice I myself faced."  
  
"But I could not have decided elsewise," Elenwë said, her voice more tender than outraged.  
  
The same hand that had delivered the blow to his ribs had found its way to warmer parts. "Your intentions hold no malice, I hope."  
  
"Malice," she said, lifting a pale, slender leg to sit astride him, "would be greatly at odds with my intentions."  
  
"Right," Findecáno said briskly. "I will tell Atar of your decision and leave you to...grapple with the consequences."  
  
He got no answer.


	9. Argon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a series of stand-alone vignettes, each concerning a grandson of Finw at a turning point or decisive moment.

War had left its litter of corpses. Aracáno's father had won the day, for most of the dead were Orcs, but Elves, too, had fallen. (1)  
  
Over an elf too bloodied and savaged to remain alive, Laurefindë murmured words of prayer for the deathless fëa. " _Tár Meletyalda!_ ," he cried, covering the elf with his own cloak. (2,3)  
  
The High King turned to Laurefindë with dread in his eyes.  
  
"I fear your son is among the dead."  
  
Aracáno's heart burned. Which of his brothers had been slain by this excrement of Melkor - valiant Findecáno, who would face Námo as a Kinslayer, or passionate Turucáno, who would leave his small daughter orphaned?  
  
"Aracáno!"  
  
"Atar, no!" he protested, ill at the thought that his father should endure another moment of grief. "See how ruined is that corpse? It is not me, for I live."  
  
"Show me."  
  
"It would be better if you did not see him."  
  
"Show me."  
  
"As you wish." Laurefindë drew back the cloak.  
  
His father looked closely at what remained of the elf's face. " _Annessanya,_ " he whispered. (4)  
  
"Lo! I am here - do not grieve so, Atar."  
  
"Eru forgive me. To revenge one, I have sacrificed another." His father shook a fist toward the West. "How many more will you take, Námo? I have sentenced one son to widowhood and another to your Halls. Dear bought, indeed, are the songs of our deeds."  
  
"Atar?"  
  
His father turned his head, but his eyes saw nothing. "This cursed place is filled with the echoes of our lament. Let us gather our dead, and depart from here. Small is our victory this day."  
  
The healer touched his sleeve. "I have one yonder who would speak with the King," the healer said. "He stood by your son at the last."  
  
At the elf's side, his father knelt close. "Tell me, Arandur, what you saw."  
  
"We pressed forward," Arandur said, his voice scarcely to be heard over the wind, "and swiftly we advanced, for your son stood tall and fearsome and orcs fell in droves by the terror of his sword. At last, we came to the heart of the orc-host, and my lord met their captain in battle and slew him. Thereafter the orcs quailed, and some took flight, but we were surrounded, and could not cut our way out. So your son fell, and I was wounded unto death."  
  
"Not death," his father protested.  
  
"Nay, my injuries are too great. I lingered only that my lord's deeds be not forgotten. I am needed elsewhere."  
  
Sorrowfully, his father closed the elf's eyes. "In Ages to come, Elves shall take my son's name as an epessë of great courage. He shall not be forgotten, good Arandur, but better would it be were he not remembered but known."  
  
Aracáno felt the bitter wind's blow. The body - his body - would no longer shelter him. They would take his remains and he would be lost forever among the echoes. Small comfort was his courage, for it profited nothing. This land was Melkor incarnate; its very wind was his breath. How it howled, in this lonely place! The wind would have the victory in the end.  
  
 _Come, my lord. We cannot remain here - do you not hear how he hungers for our fëar?_  
  
Aracáno hearkened to Arandur's voice as a rope thrown to the drowning. _But whither do you lead me?_  
  
 _Home, my lord. I am come to lead you home._  
  
 **\--------------------**  
  
(1) The story of Argon (Aracáno in Quenya) emerges only in 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' and conflicts with both the published _Silmarillion_ and older writings found in HOME. In the _Silmarillion_ , the sun rose as Fingolfin's host entered Middle-earth and sent Morgoth's servants into hiding, and he marched all the way to Angband unopposed. Realising he lacked the strength to assail Morgoth, Fingolfin retreated. The Battle of the Lammoth, in which Argon was killed, cannot be reconciled with this sequence of events. ( _The Peoples of Middle-earth_ p 345 pub Houghton Mifflin)  
  
(2) Laurefindë (Q)  
Glorfindel ( _Parma Eldalamberon_ , Vol 17 July 2007 p 119)  
  
(3) _Tár Meletyalda_ (Q)  
'Your Majesty'  
  
(4) _Annessanya_ (Q)  
'My youngest' - constructed from _an-_ , superlative prefix (Helge Fauskanger's _Ardalambion_ , 'Quenya Course - Lesson 5'); _nessa_ , young; _-nya_ , 1st pers possessive suffix


	10. Finrod

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a series of stand-alone vignettes, each concerning a grandson of Finw at a turning point or decisive moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Computer problems (Vista!) have occupied all my time lately, hence the long delay between chapters.

**Author's note:** Computer problems (Vista!) have occupied all my time lately, hence the long delay between chapters.  
  
  
 _...She whom he had loved was Amárië of the Vanyar, and she was not permitted to go with him into exile._ (1)  
  
 **Valian Year 1495**  
  
He was, of course, discreet; it would never do should the people learn that his celebrated sculpture garden featured the finest ladies of the Noldor in glorious stone-hardened nudity. A tress of hair, a veil of flowers - such tricks hid his inspiration from all but those who knew the flesh.  
  
Though the Valar often strolled among the sculptures, delighted by the beauty of the Children and their creations, not all upon Taniquetil shared their love for the garden. Indeed, Ingwë privately expressed disdain, and his assistant had once hinted that Findaráto might strategically position a few measures of silk in anticipation of Ingwë's visit to Tirion.  
  
"It is no wonder," Findaráto said, chipping away at a shapeless block that would become a likeness of one of his Telerin cousins, "that the Vanyar have so few children, seeing as shameful nudity is required for their generation."  
  
"Oh, one need not remove much clothing, if one is in a hurry," Turucáno said. "And how do things proceed with Thelmatal's daughter?"  
  
" _Quite_ well," Findaráto grinned.  
  
"I referred to the statue, but never mind that. Have you spoken to Thelmatal?"  
  
"I thought I might approach him at the harvest festival. As for the statue, I should like your advice." He set aside his tools and tugged at the sheet covering another statue.  
  
As the figure emerged from its dust cover, Turucáno burst out laughing.  
  
"I admit," Findaráto said, raising an eyebrow, "it is a bit suggestive."  
  
"Suggestive! Dear cousin, it is positively _lewd_. There is only one thing for it - we must get you married at once."  
  
"The artist can only render what he finds in the subject."  
  
"Ho! That is rich - but I should not laugh so. I can tell you that Vanyarin ladies are not nearly as prudish as their good king would wish."  
  
"I am well aware of that."  
  
"That is apparent," Turucáno laughed. "How ever did you persuade her to - well, never mind. I would not let Thelmatal see that statue until you have taken Amárië to wife."  
  
"Do you think me a fool?"  
  
"And I would not wait until the harvest festival to speak to him."  
  
"Ah, but at festival-time, I should find him well plied with wine and less fearsome of countenance. What difference will a few weeks make?" He covered the statue again with a loving hand. "Time runs more swiftly now, I perceive," he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "We push against it, as a barrier to things we have long awaited, and squander it as if its supply shall never end."  
  
"Shall the Trees cease to blossom? Shall the bliss of Valinor fade? Come, Findaráto, you are too melancholy."  
  
"Yet, it was not so long ago that you waited upon your daughter's birth, and now she is walking. Time does not hold still, in those moments we would savour - in the blink of an eye, you shall be the one assessing a suitor to her hand."  
  
They left the workshop just as Laurelin came into her fullness. "The garden should always been seen at this hour," Turucáno sighed, for in the golden light, the sculptures seemed less stone than living flesh. "But it cannot be."  
  
"Once mown the fields of gold to red earth turn. Yet Laurelin must retire before Telperion, and Summer must end in Autumn. Still, I will hold fast to these days of courtship, cousin. We shall never again pass this way." (2)  
  
 **\--------------------**  
  
(1) _...She whom he had loved was Amárië of the Vanyar, and she was not permitted to go with him into exile._  
( _The War of the Jewels_ , 'The Grey Annals' p 44 pub Houghton Mifflin) The version in the published _Silmarillion_ differs significantly: _...She whom he had loved was Amárië of the Vanyar, and she went not with him into exile._ ('Of the Noldor in Beleriand' p 151 pub Ballantine/Del Rey)  
  
(2) 'fields of gold to red earth turn'  
Finrod was inspired here by Vanyarin poet Stingarion and Rúmil Frost's 'Nothing Gold Can Stay'.


	11. Angrod

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a series of stand-alone vignettes, each concerning a grandson of Finw at a turning point or decisive moment.

The middle sons of Fëanor and Finarfin could not be seated within dagger's range of one another. Maedhros and Fingon must each be given places of honour, and lest Finrod be slighted, Fingolfin must somehow grow a third hand.  
  
Thus did Angrod and Aegnor find themselves at a lower place than their half-cousins, with Maglor to Angrod's right and Lalwen to Aegnor's left.  
  
"Do not make a fuss," she murmured. "My brother had his reasons."  
  
Galadriel, by design or her own obstinacy, had taken a more favoured place beside Maedhros. Angrod took his seat without protest, for he had an inkling of the agenda and Fingolfin knew where Dorthonion's sentiments lay. Turgon alone had dared to decline the High King's invitation; even nomadic Amrod had somehow been retrieved from the southern forests.  
  
Fingolfin now came into the hall. With regal patience, he waited until the last Fëanorian rose to pay respect. "Be seated, my kinsfolk," he said then, but stood at the table's head, disdaining his own seat. Powerful of shoulder and tall in stature, most like his father in form and face, he would now use that noble resemblance to his advantage.  
  
"Four hundred twenty-two rounds has Anor made since we came to Beleriand. We have grown numerous and strong in these years. We have built great realms and fortified our cities. We have seen the coming of Men, and have found in them sturdy and brave allies. Great trials and great losses we endured to come here from Aman, and still the Enemy, though besieged, works his evil. Did we not vow to avenge my father's death? Let us now close the noose around Morgoth's neck, and lay waste to Angband, ere he grows bold again." (1,2)  
  
As Fingolfin sat, voices erupted around the table. Angrod looked to his brother, who met his eyes and stood.  
  
"Do you think Morgoth thrashes in frustration, impotent in his prison? He does not. Every day he grows in strength; while we build our realms, he prepares to destroy them. Even now, our patrols intercept Orcs going to and fro on his business."  
  
"In other words, by your poor defence, the Leaguer fails on the marches of Dorthonion."  
  
"And how come they into Dorthonion, Curufin?" Angrod snapped. "Were the pass of Aglon held fast, no foe should reach us."  
  
"Our borders are long, whereas our people are few, and no sooner do we close one gap than another opens," Aegnor added.  
  
"To remain as we are is to allow a poisoned wound to fester," Fingolfin said. "Better to take the whole limb than lose the patient."  
  
"Carelessness." Celegorm stood. "It would be better if one did not take the poisoned arrow in the first place. If our cousins cannot hold their borders, then perhaps we should assist them in the running of their realm."  
  
"I see only two ways to avoid taking the arrow, as you suggest. Shoot first, and hope one's aim is true, or flee in craven fear. Better should I be found a poor shot than a coward."  
  
Curufin's eyes glittered. "You name us cowards, then."  
  
Finrod winced and shook his head at Angrod.  
  
The warning came too late to stop his tongue. "Cowards, indeed, are those who murder their lightly-armed brethren but quail in fear before Morgoth. Small and serviceable does your Oath seem now."  
  
Caranthir leapt to his feet, hand upon his sword. "I would call you out for that."  
  
"Perhaps," Maedhros said, in a voice of such command that Caranthir subsided into his chair, "perhaps, we hesitate not out of cowardice but experience. I am loath to begin a war that will surely see more of our brethren dead, even should we prevail."  
  
Aegnor made one last plea for action, but Angrod heard only the murmurs around him; he knew they were lost. The High King could not act without the support of Maedhros. The might of Angband would creep ever closer to Dorthonion; the pines on the northern border would continue to spread their witch's brooms over the top of the forest, and orcs would grow ever more bold in their travels. Peace in their time, he feared, would be dearly bought. (3)  
  
 **\--------------------**  
  
(1) Four hundred twenty-two rounds has Anor made  
( _The War of the Jewels_ , 'The Grey Annals' p 50 pub Houghton Mifflin)  
  
(2) Did we not vow to avenge my father's death?  
Actually, Fëanor and his sons made no such vow - the Oath says nothing about avenging Finwë.  
  
(3) witch's brooms  
I've attributed the blight to Morgoth, but this is a real phenomenon in dwarf mistletoe, which infests the pine forests of the American West. The dense mass of sap-soaked branches explodes upon ignition, allowing fires to move quickly over the top of the forest.


End file.
